


Love Grew, In Time

by veni



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-18
Packaged: 2018-01-01 22:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veni/pseuds/veni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody realized how unhappy Stannis was until they saw him happy with Sansa. A love story from five perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Grew, In Time

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [kink meme prompt](http://asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com/19312.html?thread=12992624#t12992624)
> 
> Title comes from Ovid’s Metamorphoses: “Their nearness made them aquainted, and love grew, in time” (from _The Story of Pyramus and Thisbe_ )
> 
> This fic blew out of proportion and became this huge sappy thing. I usually write weirdly sexual oddities, so this is new for me. Enjoy.

**Davos**

Davos was there when they rescued the Stark girl. He’d gotten word of it from a man in White Harbor, and he sailed off to the Fingers himself. Poor little thing, left in that dank keep with the few smallfolk who lived there. It was a blessing that Lord Baelish had gone ahead, had left her there to be shipped to him at a later date. They had fled the Vale, Baelish and his ward, after something had gone foul with the local lords there. Davos was unclear of the particulars; all he knew was that she was arranged to be married off to some wealthy Braavosi far away from Westeros, and for Davos to have gotten to her before she was sent off was nothing short of a miracle.

She’s kept in the highest room in the top of the crumbling tower like the princess in one of Shireen’s tales. Davos climbs the steps quickly, and when he reaches her she comes willingly. There is no trust in her wide eyes, only resignation. She does not believe Davos, when he explains where they are going. “Lord Stannis will sell me off,” she mutters, “there is more gold in it.” Davos tries to explain that king Stannis is not that kind of man, that he is always just, but she will not listen. She stays quiet, until she finds out where they are going.

“ _Winterfell_ ,” she breathes, “but it burned. I was told it was all gone.”

“It was burned,” Davos admits. “But Lord Bolton had begun to rebuild, and now that king Stannis has smashed his host and killed his soldiers, he’s set his men to finish the job. You’ll be staying at Winterfell as an honored ward of the king.” Large blue eyes bore into Davos, but he holds her gaze. _I speak truth_ , he thinks, _you must believe me_. Finally, Sansa gives him a small, sharp nod. Davos smiles.

The rest of the trip along the coast is far more pleasant. The promise of coming home seems to have awakened new life in the Stark girl, and as each day passes she seems to blossom. She is enjoyable company, very much the little lady; she chatters with Davos and speaks kindly with the men aboard the ship, and the crew seems to grow very fond of her. She is still a fragile thing, no doubt; Davos thinks of what Baelish must have done, to wound her so, and he is comforted in the knowledge that his lord Stannis will no doubt dispense justice. Davos just hopes, privately, that Stannis will greet the girl with some modicum of warmth; he would hate for Sansa to wilt once again.

Eventually they can sail no further, and they travel inward, by land. The wintry winds do not seem to bother Sansa (Davos is quietly surprised; she seems such a weak thing), and their small group is able to reach Winterfell in a week’s time. It is a blessedly clear day when they arrive, the sky a brilliant blue. The sound of construction greets them before Davos can even set eyes on the castle. When he finally sees its great looming presence appear over the horizon, he hears Sansa gasp beside him.

“Welcome home, my lady,” he tells her. Sansa gives him a radiant smile. “Thank you, Ser Davos,” she answers. She presses her heels into her horse and gallops off, wind whipping through dark red hair. She is not much older than princess Shireen, but as she dashes through the snow, Davos thinks she is more of a lady than any of the royal women he’s met thus far.

Davos stays on at Winterfell with his king, who wisely agrees that it’s a good base for the men to recuperate and rest. “We’ll raise our strength here,” Stannis declares, and there is much rejoicing. Fortifying a castle is hard work, but far preferable to marching through snow, and as each day passes, Winterfell is beginning to feel more and more like a home.

Lord Bolton had provisioned the castle stores with a great deal of food, and on the day construction is completed, Stannis announces they will have a small feast of sorts in celebration. Stannis is seated at the high table, in the chair once occupied by the late Lord Stark. Queen Selyse does not attend (she had not taken well to the cold and had fallen ill), so the lady Sansa is seated next to the king. Davos thinks this is appropriate, as it is her castle by rights. He is seated beside her, with a few Florent lords and some high-ranking men of the Hill tribes taking up the other seats of honor.

Among the stores of food, there is a very large quantity of alcohol. Davos partakes in very little (as the king’s hand he feels it best to keep his wits about him), and Stannis drinks none, but the men in the hall seem to be trying to drown themselves in liquor. Two hours into the feast, nearly every man in the hall is blind drunk, and Davos realizes that Sansa may pose a problem: there are very, very few women in Winterfell, most having being killed during the original siege, and the women that accompanied the queen choosing to stay with their lady as she recovers from her illness. The Greyjoy girl is held up in some tower, keeping an eye on her brother (he is recovering, but it is slow going). The Lady Melisandre will not leave her fires—last Davos heard, she had spotted some prophecy in the flames, something about a wolf and a stag and a blinding light, and she would not tear herself away from her work.

Sansa is the only woman in the hall. And she is beautiful.

Davos recognizes the moment trouble starts. A low-born soldier, red in the face and reeking of alcohol, stumbles up to the high table. Some of the men have taken up instruments and gotten a makeshift band going, and the racket they’ve created is so loud Davos cannot hear what the soldier says, but something very curious happens: Sansa flushes a perfectly scandalized red, and Stannis stands up as quick as a whipcrack. The man looks startled, but just for a moment, before Stannis hauls him forward and demands an apology. Even drunk, the soldier is terrified (and rightly so), and Davos sees him stammer an apology before scurrying off. Stannis watches him go, fuming, and Davos is genuinely afraid that Stannis might stalk him out of the hall, when he sees Sansa’s small white hand touch the king’s arm. And Stannis changes, instantly; his postures relaxes, spine losing its guillotine edge. He gives Sansa a quick look and seats himself, and her tiny hand flutters back into her lap. She says something, then, and the ghost of a smile flits across Stannis’ face.

 _Maybe I am drunk_ , Davos thinks with widened eyes. He watches his king, watches him lean imperceptibly close to the Stark girl as her words, incredibly, calm him down. Davos cannot think of a single instance of Selyse fascinating Stannis so, and even Melisandre’s captivating presence seemed only to rile him up; Sansa, though, softens his edges.

Davos looks at her, and he thinks that Sansa is very much the image of a queen.

 

* * *

 

**Theon**

 

Theon goes catatonic when Stannis has Ramsay burned. He watches the flames lick up the bastard’s face, watches the eyes melt in his head as his skin crackles and blisters, and Theon just falls to the ground, motionless. Even as the Red Witch wrinkles up her nose at the smell of him and the men turn away, Theon watches.

Asha is the one who drags him away. She leads him up to some room far away from the noise of the castle, and she tucks him into bed. “Stay here, brother,” she orders, “or I’ll hold you down myself.” Theon stares at her and does not say a word, but eventually sleep takes him. He wakes in a cold sweat, Ramsay’s screams ringing in his ears. When he sits up, Asha is there, and she strokes his head and whispers soothing words in his ear. It is difficult, but eventually he falls back into a fitful sleep. The next night is easier, and the following is simpler still. He asks after Jeyne, and Asha tells him she died, in the siege, and Theon is very sad, but he has no tears left to spill. Besides, Jeyne died long ago.

Asha tells him of Sansa’s arrival. Theon has not left his little room (he does not want the men to see him, and the men do not trust him, even still, even after they are told of the Bastard’s doing), but Asha tells him that Sansa knows he’s here, and she wants to see him. _I burned down her home_ , he thinks, _I killed her brothers_. But then he remembers that it was not him that did those things. So he agrees.

Sansa comes up into his little room to see him. She brings lemoncakes, but when she lays eyes on him the cakes fall splattering onto the floor. “Theon,” she breathes. He doesn’t move from his bed. “He’s getting better every day,” Asha tells her, her tone a little hostile.

“Theon,” Sansa says again, and she just looks so sad. Theon turns away. She steps toward the bed, and when Theon feels her hand on his head he trembles. “I heard what you did for Jeyne,” she says, stroking his hair a bit. “Thank you.”

Theon closes his eyes, exhausted. _I did it all for Jeyne_ , he thinks, and it’s like a weight has been lifted from him. He feels Sansa press a light kiss to his forehead, and when he opens his eyes again, she’s gone.

Sansa visits him every day. Along with Asha, the two girls gradually help Theon accustom himself to normalcy. They keep him fed, and bathed, and they speak to him like he’s human ( _like he’s worth something_ ), and though the Theon that he sees in the looking glass is far from the handsome youth he once was, he sees progress. His hair is even coming in darker.

One day, Stannis visits him. Asha has kept him away while Theon recovers, but even her fierce charisma cannot keep him away permanently. Theon receives him in his little room, seated between his two sisters, and when Stannis arrives Theon is able to meet his eye. He tells Stannis everything, and when he stumbles, or shakes, or shudders at memories of long-dead ghosts, two sets of hands keep him steady.

“I was right to burn him, then,” Stannis says, once Theon has finished. Asha nods, her hands curled protectively through the remnants of Theon’s fingers. On his right, Sansa mirrors her.

“It was just, your grace,” Sansa says. She shares a look with the king, and something like recognition flickers through Theon’s mind.

That night, Theon wanders from his room. He slips past Asha, who snores quietly on the bed beside him, and he walks through Winterfell’s dark corridors with familiar ease. Sconces give the walls an eerie glow, but most of the rooms Theon’s passes are black as ink. He thinks of slipping into the kitchens and grabbing a cake, like when he was a boy, when low murmuring catches his ear. He stills, but the murmuring continues—he was not heard. Life at the Dreadfort taught him how to walk with a quiet step, and Theon is able to creep up on the voices without bringing any attention to himself.

He recognizes the deep timbre of the king’s voice. It’s coming from a small room with the door ajar; warm orange light filters into the hall. Theon stops just at the edge of the door.

“...died this morning,” Stannis says. “The cold took her. The maester says it was a blessing.” He barks out a laugh. “I told him she would have disagreed.”

Silence. A male voice answers, “at least she’s no longer suffering.”

“She was a long-suffering woman, Ser Davos. She often told me so.” There’s a bit of shuffling and the clanking of cups being moved about. “When I heard the news I did think it a blessing, though. Does that make me a bad man, Ser?”

“You are a just man and a fine king,” the man called Davos answers without hesitation. “She died surrounded by friends; I too would call it a blessing, you grace.”

Stannis snorts. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Your grace?”

“She was my lady wife and my queen, but she was a cold woman, and barren. She brought me nothing but grief.” He pauses. “And I fear she was a poor influence on Shireen, as well.”

“I’ve spoken to the princess,” Davos offers. “She’s taken a shine to the lady Sansa. Were you to keep her in Shireen’s company, I wager it would do the princess a world of good.”

Stannis says nothing. Theon can hear the crackling of a fire as the silence stretches out, and he is just about to creep away when Davos breaks the silence. “She has flowered, your grace,” he says, voice as soft as one approaching a fearful deer. “It is not a foul thing, as you have portrayed it.”

“I am not _Robert_ ,” Stannis hisses. “I will not force myself on a child—”

“She is no child, your grace, but a woman grown. And forgive me, your grace, but you would have to be blind to ignore the way she looks at you. You would not be forcing yourself on her, but giving her safety and happiness as the wife of a king. She would be lucky to have a husband as just and honorable as yourself.”

“Leave me, Ser Davos,” Stannis says with a hollow voice. “I am far too tired to hear this.”

Theon hears a chair move and he scurries off as fast as he can, mind buzzing. He thinks of what Davos had said, about the way Sansa had looked at the king, and he realizes with a start that he’s right. He goes back to bed and does not tell anyone what he overheard, but when he starts to leave his room during the daylight, he is given plenty of opportunity to see, to watch Sansa and the king. Stannis’ eyes follow her as he looks out on the grounds, and in the halls when they eat, Sansa twirls her hair and casts fleeting glances at his stern face, a small smile playing on her lips.

Theon watches an infatuation grow into something more, and one day the king offers to take her on a walk. They are gone for hours; when Sansa returns, she joins him and Asha in their room, and she is flushed pink and breathless. “He’s asked to marry me,” she confides. Asha screams and hugs her tightly, and Theon gives her a real smile. “You’ll be a terrific queen,” he says. Sansa beams.

 

* * *

 

**Jon**

 

 _If the Wall were a living man, it would be Stannis Baratheon_ , Jon had thought when he first laid eyes on the Lord of Dragonstone. Never had Jon seen a colder man; he was bitter, locked into a sense of frozen morality and consumed by a sense of justice and righteousness that rendered him impenetrable to those around him. Stannis seemed distant, even to that Red Witch of his, as though he, too, were as immovable as the Wall.

Jon grows used to the sound of Stannis grinding his teeth and barking off orders, and his biting sarcasm seems drawn from an endless well. When the war ends and the surly man rides off, Jon feels well rid of him. He is content in the knowledge that he’ll likely never have to deal with Stannis again.

Time passes, and Jon gets a raven, and it’s as though his world has crumbled out of existence. Sam reads the letter to him, something along the lines of _The kingdom has been split with the Targaryen girl, she’s taken the South_ and _I’ve been crowned king of the North, as you’ve no doubt heard_ , but what really catches Jon’s ear is the last line, fit in like an afterthought but with the most deliberate, carefully wrought prose of the entire letter: _My wife has died, and I will take your sister the lady Sansa as queen; she requests you attend the wedding_.

Jon sits in stunned silence. Sam coughs awkwardly. “Sansa’s the one who likes flowers, yeah?” he asks after a moment. Jon doesn’t say anything; he just nods, eyes fixed on Ghost, who seems rather amused by the whole affair. “We could bring some along, as a wedding gift,” Sam offers, and Jon looks at him as if he’d suggested putting Dolorous Edd in charge of boosting morale.

They go to the wedding, of course. Jon is absolutely certain that to ignore the invitation would be a serious slight to Stannis’ pride and authority as king, and though the Night’s Watch officially takes no part in the politics of the realm, having a king well-disposed toward their cause couldn’t hurt. He goes south with Sam and a small party of men, and they arrive at Winterfell (the seat of the Northern kingdom) far sooner than he would have liked. Jon thinks of the cold reception Stannis is likely to give him, and he shudders, wishing for the warm embrace of the Wall.

The men of the Night’s Watch are sent off to a few rooms, and they are grateful for rest after such a long journey. Jon is directed to a cozy little chamber off toward the back of the castle, near the gardens. Jon braces himself for what will surely be an unpleasant encounter (Sansa never having been his closest sibling, and Stannis being, well, _Stannis_ ), and he enters the room.

He hears a shriek that sounds a lot like “Jon!” and he finds his arms full of a hysterical red-haired woman. It takes him a moment to realize it’s Sansa.

“Jon!” she cries again, “it’s you, oh gods, it’s really you! I haven’t seen any of you in ages, and Jon, oh gods Jon I’m so sorry, I never knew how foul I’d been, I never knew how awful I was to you for being a bastard until I was a bastard, too, and I’m sorry, Jon, gods, I’m so sorry,” and she’s babbling, tears streaming down her face, large blue eyes shining, and Jon has never been so uncomfortable in his life.

“Sansa, it’s fine, you were just a little girl—”

“No, no, please, I was absolutely dreadful to you.” She looks at him, then, and he’s startled to see how she’s grown. She’s barely fifteen, but it’s as if there’s been a lifetime between them. “Brother,” she murmurs, and Jon’s heart aches.

They stay clutching each other, and Jon thinks for a moment how much he’s missed his family. They are the only two in the room, and they spend an age just talking to each other. Sansa does most of the speaking, going on about the Lannisters and the Vale and all sorts of awful things, her face contorted into genuine, heart-breaking sadness. And then a peculiar change overtake her: she mentions Stannis, and something like joy flickers into her face. “The king,” she calls him with a shy smile, face flushed a bit. “He’s a lot like father,” Sansa says, “he’s a very just man, you know, he doesn’t...he doesn’t play the game, like the others. He’s good. He’s a good man, a good king.”

And Jon nods, and smiles, and when Sansa asks him if he’ll give her way at the wedding, Jon pulls her close, and he says yes.

 _Stannis will keep her safe_. That’s what Sansa needs, really, someone to keep her away from court intrigue and pointless meddling. _And if Stannis comes to love her even a tenth as much as she loves him, it will be a good marriage_.

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, Jon realizes he will not love her a tenth as much. He catches the way the king looks at his sister during meals, in the halls, when she’s playing with the princess Shireen—he looks at her and he does not grind his teeth, the frown falls from his face, and there is such genuine warmth in him then that it’s as if the ice has melted away. Jon can see love, there, and it’s so unexpected he nearly gasps. Jon thinks of the Stannis he met at the Wall, and the Stannis he sees now, and Jon is truly happy for them both.

 

* * *

 

**Shireen**

 

Her father had never been a man prone to smiling, not genuinely; she had seen him gift men with truly biting, sarcastic sorts of smiles, and she had seen him wear an expression of annoyance more times than she could count. But really, Shireen could not think of an instance where her lord father had ever really, honestly smiled.

Lady Sansa smiles often. She wakes Shireen each morning, bringing her inviting teas and sweet cakes and a bright, friendly smile at the start of each day. Sometimes she’ll sit with Shireen and send the maids away, combing out Shireen’s hair and fussing over her clothing and always, always smiling. Shireen thinks of her lady mother, before she had died, and she remembers feeling cold, and scared, and above all else, _confined_. With lady Sansa, joy permeates everything, and Shireen’s face, more often than not, reflects the warm smile of her new lady mother. Shireen remembers being told yawning is infectious, and she wonders if smiles can be catching, too.  

Sometimes her lord father comes in to see them play. He stands in the doorway and watches them, and an odd look passes through his face—a sort of warmth in the eyes; it confuses Shireen, at first, because it’s a stranger on her father’s face. But one day it hits Shireen that it’s _happiness_ , and to think that her father had never truly been happy before nearly brings tears to her eyes.

A year or so after her lord father marries the lady Sansa, people in the castle remark on how odd it is—how they have all caught the king openly smiling as he goes about his day (of course, once he has been caught smiling, the king quickly scowls and mutters and puts on a curmudgeon’s mask, but there is a calm contentedness there, warm beneath the surface). They cannot comprehend what sort of witchcraft must be at play. The maester mentions it in passing, and Shireen grins at him. “He caught it from lady Sansa,” she tells him, and he quirks his mouth up, amused. “See?” Shireen chirps, “it’s catching!”

 

* * *

 

**Stannis**

 

Stannis wakes to find the window has been thrown open. He grumbles and rolls over in the bed, but his face softens when he sees his young wife. Her red hair whips about her shoulders as she looks out over the snowy field, and his breath catches in his throat; he forgets how beautiful she is, sometimes, but every morning he is reminded.

She hears him move in bed. “Your grace,” Sansa says, gifting him with a brilliant smile. “It’s lovely out today.”

“You say that every day,” he mutters, and she laughs.

“I suppose I do. But it is lovely out, really.” She looks back out the window. “I’ve sent a raven to Jon, to let him know the baby’s almost due. He wants to be here for the birth.”

Stannis throws an arm over his eyes in mock distress. “So the castle will be swarming with men of the Night’s Watch again, how lovely.”

“I’m sure the effort to be sociable will exhaust you,” she teases, turning away from the window. Her bare feet are soundless as she pads back to the bed, and when she burrows beneath the covers, her feet are cold against Stannis’ leg. “But I think I can help you keep your strength up.”

He rolls her over and curls against her back. Strong arms entwine themselves around the delicate roundness of her belly, and he buries his face in her thick red hair. Stannis loves how easy it is to tuck her against him, how content he feels just being with his young wife. “I command you rest, by order of your king,” he says gruffly.

Sansa laughs. “The maester says we needn’t abstain completely, it’s perfectly safe for the baby.”

“I can contain myself.”

There is a gentle knock on the door. “Father?” Shireen calls. “Is Lady Sansa awake? She promised to show me more of the library today.”

“I’ll be right out, sweetling,” Sansa calls. She extracts herself from his arms, only to be pulled back into the bed.

“I lied,” Stannis whispers hotly in her ear. “I cannot contain myself.”

“Shireen has her lessons in a few hours, you can control yourself until then.” Sansa rolls over and kisses him squarely on the nose. He blinks at her and she giggles. Stannis never thought he’d find giggling endearing, but stranger things have happened.

He helps his queen out of bed and allows Shireen inside. He watches them chatter idly and fuss over clothes and other silly womanly matters, and it strikes Stannis that he has not felt so calm and so happy since he was a very small boy. He catches Sansa’s eye and she smiles at him.

And he smiles back.


End file.
